Hedge Knight
by kurumiponcho
Summary: Ulfric, a bartender's son, was called to arms by the Young Wolf in his march south to avenge the murder of Ned Stark. From the point of view of a smallfolk, Ulfric's story follows a normal foot soldier as he faces the dangers of Robb Stark's tragic campaign in the Riverlands.
1. The Crag

"Move aside! Out of the fucking way!" Ulfric shouted as he sprinted back towards camp, though the weight of the body he was carrying slowed him down. Any reason he he could use to get as far the fuck away from the battle as possible was welcome. The added weight of King Robb Stark was a slight inconvenience. Though Olyvar Frey carried half the weight, the King's armour was considerably heavy. A stud on the pauldron of the armour bit into the thin layer of hardened leather Ulfric wore, causing him to swear in pain.

"For fuck's sake, how heavy is this armour?" Ulfric groaned. The King had been struck by an arrow from the battlements, luckily the arrow didn't hit anywhere vital as the King was able to carry on fighting, living up to his nickname "the Young Wolf". However, as the battle drew to a close, His Grace slumped back on his horse, visibly exhausted from the battle. Ulfric snatched this chance to excuse himself from the battlefield as he made an impromptu decision of taking up the role of the King's stretcher, carrying His Grace with the royal squire Olyvar Frey shouldering half the burden.

"Just shut up and hold up your half." Olyvar hissed back at Ulfric, not a hint of effort on his face as the King's leg plates rested on his broad shoulders, His Grace's... magnificence a tad bit too close to his face.

Torches illuminate the path back to camp. Shadows danced and flickered and elongated, inhuman, yet captivating, occasionally casting twisted forms of men and horses on the well-trodden ground. Pools of muddy water dotted the land, created by the constant abuse from the hooves of the six thousand horses that came with the host of angry Northmen out for Lion blood. The Stark banner flew high and proud on the entrance of the camp, grey and white, like the mens' gear. A snarling Direwolf greeted Ulfric as he passed underneath the banner, its fangs bare, ferocious and noble. Further in the camp, the Twin Towers of the Freys stood resolute, its blue battlements a welcoming sight, serving as a safe harbour for the Stark wolves. A couple of Frey men bickered with the Umbers, who towered over the Freys with their giant, on their banner, that is. The King's pavilion was in the centre of the camp.

"Call for a healer, the King is wounded!" Olyvar bellowed as they entered the encampment, "call for a healer, _NOW,_ you fucking dimwit." A scrawny boy no older than thirteen was the the target of this abuse. He abruptly snapped to attention and darts into one of the tents, emerging with a middle-aged man who was balding in the back of his head.

Horns sounded from the castle, signalling a quick end to the Westerlings' resistance, its garrison of a hundred odd men fell to the Starks' overwhelming six thousand. _Thank the gods._ Ulfric thought to himself, congratulating himself for his quick thinking that helped him avoid the chaos of battle.

* * *

 _Tap. Tap. Tap._ Ulfrick's clicks his boots together out of boredom. He risked his own life (not really) last night in order to rescue the King from harm, and this is what he gets? _Guard duty_? The battle has already been won, and yet Ulfric was here standing guard instead of getting a rest. It's not as if he would make a good guard at all. He is lean and of medium stature, hardly an intimidating figure to dissuade any shady business going on around him. His black hair fits uncomfortably in his helmet, which was always a slightly tilted no matter how many times he tries to adjust it. His hardened leather armour fits him snuggly, covering a slightly toned torso. Hardly a fighter, Ulfric's short arming sword hangs from his belt, though it was more for show than anything else. He misses the lazy days back in the Smoking Log where he would help his father run the cozy alehouse, occasionally playing the lute for the customers accompanied by Mya's pretty singing. He misses learning about the world from the patrons, picking up bits and pieces of everything as he worked. He misses the drunk fights that would sometimes break out between the alehouse's patrons, way less violent and results in less deaths. He misses the feeling of sleeping in his hammock, humming a tune to himself and teased by Mya on his tone-deafness when it comes to singing. Most of all, he missed Mya, his cute little sister and her antics.

"When I grow up, I'll tour the the Seven Kingdoms. And you'll come with me, Ulfric! We'll sing and perform for all the lords and ladies in their feasts." She used to say when she was about eight or nine, with a dreamy look in her eyes as she imagines the grandeur and splendor of the aristocratic life. Ulfric smiled, wondering if she still dreams of singing for the lords and ladies. He wonders if the scribe boy Willem is treating her right and whether she had bore him a child by now. She was wedded shortly after the Starks called their banners, and Ulfric felt a tinge of regret as he was not able to attend her wedding. It has been over a year since Ulfric marched south with the Stark army of twelve thousand men, yet it felt as if he has been on the march for a millennium. The Young Wolf and his pack took the Riverlands and Westerlands by storm, swiftly sweeping across the land like his Direwolf's name "Grey Wind". Not a single loss as of yet, the campaign seems to be going strong, yet Ulfric could not feel any progress towards their end-goal: the independence of the North.

"Could I enter and tend to His Grace?" A gentle voice pulls Ulfric away from his thoughts. He straightens and turns towards the owner of the voice. A young, slender girl with chestnut coloured curls stood in front of him, followed by another girl who seemed to be her handmaiden.

"May I ask who seeks audience with the King?" Ulfric asks, glad that there was at least someone here to alleviate the boredom of guarding the bedroom of the Young Wolf as he recovers from his wounds.

"Jeyne Westerling, daughter of Lord Gawen Westerling." She answers in a shy voice, throwing a glance behind her, as if pleading her companion for some assistance. Ulfric follows her glance at the handmaiden behind her and notices a basket carrying some cloth and herbs.

"Milady's uncle, Ser Rolph Spicer, suggests that she should help tend to His Grace's wounds since she is very knowledgeable in the arts of healing. Perhaps she could assist in King Stark's recovery." Her handmaiden says in a pretty voice that conveys more confidence than her lady and shows the basket to Ulfric, almost as if to assure him there are no weapons concealed inside.

Ulfric nods, seeing as there was no direct order forbidding the Westerling ladies from contact with the King. Perhaps King Robb would like a pretty girl tending to His Grace's wounds. Ulfric knows that _he_ would. Stepping aside, Ulfric lets the young Lady and her handmaiden enter the King's bedroom. As the doors close, Ulfrick couldn't help but snicker. _Damn it, Your Grace, you fucking lucky bastard_.

As soon as the two girls head into the room and the door closes behind him, Ulfric was left to himself again, though this time slightly happier to have been able to meet (and she also talked to him! What a day!) a pretty lady. This new enthusiasm, however, quickly burns away as the mind numbing monotony that is guard duty takes over once again. He sighs, resigned to the fact that he was probably going to miss the victory celebration some of the men planned in the camp. A couple of his mates in the barracks apparently found a whorehouse in a nearby town, and are going to smuggle some of the whores into the camp for the celebration. _Not that I'm interested._ Ulfric reassures himself. _I'm not so desperate as to enjoy cheap whores._ He redistributes his weight to the right, relaxing his uptight posture and slouches a little. The helmet on his head seems to become more constricting by the minute.

* * *

It seemed like a century, but Ulfric's torturous guard duty was finally ended as King Robb called from inside the room, "You, standing out there, escort Lady Jeyne back to her chambers. The soldiers tend to get a bit rowdy after a battle." His voice still weak from his wound, but still as commanding and clear as ever. Stepping into the room, Ulfric nods.

"As you wish, Your Grace."

A flash of loneliness danced across Lady Jeyne's face, but she quickly hides it with a smile. "Thank you for your concern, Your Grace." Her eyes twinkles with a hint of adoration as she moves her glance reluctantly from King Robb's handsome features to Ulfric.

"I'll be in your care until the East Wing, good ser." She bobs her head slightly in a show of gratitude. Her handmaiden follows closely behind her, the contents of her basket disappeared by a considerable amount.

Wishing to end his shift as soon as possible, Ulfric notifies another guard down the hallway to take over his position. Keeping a respectful distance from the Lady, Ulfric leads her through the castle keep.

"Are you one of the King's knights, ser?" Suddenly, Lady Jeyne asks with a curious voice.

Surprised that the Lady mistook him for a knight, Ulfric replies, "No, milady, I'm just a levy."

"You carry yourself differently from the other levies." The sudden compliment caught Ulfric by surprise. She was not wrong, however. The Smoking Log is no stranger to some of the retainers in Winterfell. Ulfric enjoyed observing them while he served in the alehouse, picking up some of their quirks along the way. It took quite a bit of willpower, but Ulfric knew how to act around nobles as long as he concentrated.

"You are too kind, milady." He thanks Lady Jeyne before falling back into silence in an conscious effort to steer the subject away from his graceful conduct as he walks down the dilapidated halls of the Crag.

The rest of the "scenic walk" was conducted in silence, as Ulfric's mind wandered to the celebrations in camp. Not wanting to stay a second long than necessary, Ulfric leads the two girls back to their chambers before bowing slightly and leaving with a slight skip in his step. The party called to him and he was afraid he'd be literally late to the party.

 ** _(Hope you enjoy this story! It's my first story and if you have any suggestions and/or criticism, please feel free to leave a review. I'd love to hear your voices on the matter.)_**


	2. Firewood Duty

_Ughh..._ Ulfric groans as he shifted in his mattress. His head pounded. _That's some shitty ale..._ He complains to himself as the hangover sent icicles into his brain. "Fu...ck..." He moans again. The party last night was a success. Even Smalljon Umber joined in the celebrations, though he might not have been that happy if he had known about the whores that Borys and his mates hid in the far pavilion. Luckily, the sound of toasts and singing drowned out the cries of pleasure coming from what Borys dubbed as "The Pleasure Den". A pretty unsubtle name, but Ulfric knew that it sounded fancy to the other men. Perhaps it was a conscious effort to stay away from the impromptu whorehouse, Ulfric occupied himself with the cheap ale and wine some of the other men brought from the local inn about a mile away. It wasn't the best, but it was better than what the army had in its stores. After one too many cups of the drinks, Ulfric and his mates retired to their tent in drunken satisfaction.

However, he quickly regretted the decision to down a whole barrel of drinks with his company of five. Tossing and turning in the rags he calls sheets, Ulfric tries to return to the blissful realm of dreams, prompting his tent-mate Edd to deliver a quick blow with his elbow in an attempt to stop Ulfric from disturbing his sleep. Returning the favour, Ulfric purposely turns towards Edd and gave him a kick. Deciding to ignore the provocation, Edd turns away, muttering a curse under his breath.

This exchange of friendly bickering is interrupted by a booming voice. "Get up, you shit-heads. Time to move your asses." Squinting, Ulfric tries to determine whether the voice came from a commander or a figment of his half-dreaming self. Deciding it was the former, Ulfric groggily throws his sheets and sits up, fighting down a yawn. "'Morning." He greets his superior lazily. The other four in the tent climbs up after him, rubbing their temples.

"Morning my arse, it's almost noon." The captain growls back. "Lord Frey found out about your little 'pleasure den' last night, and he is not happy about it." _The Black Walder? Shit._ Ulfric's face turned from a lazy smirk to furrowed brows.

"Luckily he don't got any authority over us Stark men, but I'm responsible for you wankers." He sighs, his tone more like a disappointed parent than an infuriated commander. "As a disciplinary measure, you're all assigned to firewood duty. Now get your arses to the forest before I change my fucking mind."

"Aye aye, _Lord Captain._ " Jon replies with a sarcastic tone, prompting the captain to smack Jon over the broad side of his head. "Ow! Not even my pa hit me that fucking hard." He complains.

"Well, I ain't your pa, shit stain." The captain retorts curtly, stifling back a laugh. However, his composure quickly melts away as the rest of the tent burst out laughing when Jon stuck out his tongue. Ulfric's unit is composed of some of the youngest members of the host from the winter town. It didn't take long before the five of them got along and became notorious in the camp for their mischievous antics and their knack for trouble. Ulfric knew most of them from home. Edd's father was a regular at the Smoking Log, a huntsman who often brought in fresh meat to share with the rest of the alehouse. Jon's aunt was married to Martyn Cassel, which according to him made him a quarter noble, but he was far from a noble as he was the most foul-mouthed of the group. His friends jokingly gave him the title "Lord of Pissmouth". The other two, Harold and Jorah were from the other side of town, and Ulfric did not know them that well before, but the two quickly melded into the group. Harold's family ran a butchery and Jorah's father a carpenter. Ulfric knew their fathers as they occasionally visited the Smoking Log, but has never met the two until their march down south, but they are now some of his best friends.

 _Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack_. This nostalgic reminiscence was cut short by the captain as he smacks each of them in turn. "Get going or I'll deliver you to Lord Frey himself." Ulfric starts to complain that they weren't the ones who set up the whorehouse, but decides against it as the captain would not have believed them even if they retorted. The group's notoriety made them the perfect scapegoat for any misbehaviour, so instead of defending against the false charges, Ulfric decides to extort some of the money from Borys when he got back instead. Mumbling their acquiescence, the group shuffled out of the tent to pick up the woodaxes in preparation for their labour they faced today.

* * *

"Why is it always us? What did we fucking do to deserve this?" Jon whines as he hacks away at the tree, his well built body a result from the hard labour he was accustomed to back home. "I didn't even get to fuck a single whore back there. Did you see how long the fucking line was?" He is a year younger than Ulfric but a whole head taller, and celebrated his fifteenth nameday a couple of months ago.

"Like you're one to talk. I had guard duty yesterday, and now I'm here fucking gathering firewood." Ulfric snorts, turning his gaze to Edd, who was grunting as he attacked a tree trunk. "Oi, Edd! Did you get a look inside the Den last night?"

The question stopped Edd's violent assault. Blushing, the boy shook his head, "No, I didn't even go near that place." He was a bit shorter than Ulfric, but better toned, making him seem larger and more intimidating even though he was the youngest in the group. A few months younger than Jon, Edd's nameday is coming up soon.

"Sure, lover boy, I'm sure your pretty Reiya back home is as faithful as you are." Harold laughs, which nets him a murderous look from Edd as he returns to his furious hacking.

"Don't you talk shit about Reiya." Edd's reply was curt as he paused for a moment to adjust his grip on his axe. Jorah interrupts the _friendly_ conversation with a cry of victory as a thin tree falls over, prompting a laugh from Jon. "My cock is thicker than that tree. The fuck are you celebrating for?"

"We're here for firewood, not logs for building, you dimwit." Jorah retorts, pointing out the mistake of the others. "What use is a whole fucking tree if we can't carry it back?" His words hung in the air as the others tried to process what he just said, leaving the forest with an eerie silence. He treads over to his next target, his towering stature commanding the respect of the rest of the group. He is the oldest of the group, two years into manhood at eighteen, often encouraging the others in the group to seek guidance from him.

Ulfric is the first to break the silence. Sighing, he stops and sits down, creating a rustle of leaves. "You could have told us earlier. Fuck me... I'm going for a leak."

Jorah shrugs, "I just thought watching you guys dance around like headless chickens was funny." Jon grabs a pebble from the ground and hurls it at Jorah, who sidesteps and picks up a twig, returning the favour. This little exchange soon devolved into a free-for-all as the other two also started to pick up small debris and firing it at anyone who catches their sight.

Ulfric shakes his head as he stands up, avoiding an incoming projectile. Heading towards the stream to relief himself, he leaves the four to their shenanigans, though he was prepared to return and wipe the floor with them.

* * *

The stream is about a minute's walk away. Ulfric found a small bush and relieved himself, the sound of shouting and laughing still audible. Walking over to the stream he kneels down and cupped a small handful of water. He splashes the cool and refreshing liquid over his face, the cold sting reinvigorating him. He sighs and cups another handful before drinking, the water a welcoming sensation in his parched throat. Looking around and seeing no one, he relaxes and starts humming a tune. The humming soon becomes singing. Reminiscing his time back in the Smoking Log, Ulfric breaks out in a full chorus of his sister's favourite song.

 _And down the road from here to there._

 _From here! To there!_

 _Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear!_

 _They danced and spun, all the way to the fair_ _!_

 _The fair! The-_

His singing was cut short by a burst of laughter behind him. Turning around, his gaze meets with a pretty face. Cute and dainty features accentuate the prettiness, and a brown cascade of hair puts a perfect frame to the delicate picture. Two brown eyes decorate the face like jewelry, sparkling with youth and energy. "That is the worst singing I've ever heard." The blunt insult is delivered with a voice that was crisp and beautiful like a string of bells.

"Fuck you, I have a beautiful voice." He replies, in attempt to use sarcasm to cover his embarrassment.

Taken aback by the crude remark, the girl recoils for a bit, confused. The confusion, however, quickly turns into a smirk. "Oh, isn't this the courteous _Ser Guard_? So much for acting noble." She laughs in a mocking tone.

It was then when he finally recognises the girl: the handmaiden of Lady Jeyne. "Oh, it's you. What the fuck are you doing out here?"

Shrugging off his crudeness, the girl points to her basket, which was filled with an assortment of leaves and roots. "Picking herbs for your King. Jey-, Lady Jeyne will tend to him later." She cocks an eyebrow at him, "What are _you_ doing here? Don't tell me you're here to frolic by the stream like some maiden."

"Aye, deep inside, I'm just a young maiden waiting for a bear to sweep me off my knees and marry me." Ulfric laughs. The girl rolls her eyes and shifts her basket to the right. "Says the maiden who can't even carry a tune properly." She says with a smirk.

A hint of annoyance flutters over Ulfric's face, partly at the girl as she demeans his singing and partly at himself for singing out loud. "Teach me how to sing, then, Oh, _Lady Handsmaiden._ You seem like a _master_ at singing."

"And why would I do that? Are you going to pay for my singing?" She shoots down his taunt. "I don't think you can afford it."

"And I don't think you can live up to my standards. You're probably just as tone deaf as I am." Ulfric snorts, doubtful of her ability to compare with his sister, whose voice sounds could move the weirwood trees.

"Your standards? A peasant like you knows nothing of the beautiful singing in feasts. Acting all noble doesn't make you one, _Ser Guard._ " She shifts her basket in front of her in a defensive posture.

"Peasant? Like you're some kind of noble. A handsmaiden acting all high and mighty, what a fucking joke."

His retort sends her into silence. The silence lasts only a split second however, as she flushes and raises her voice a bit, "Yeah, I'm not like you, peasant. Jeyne said that she will ask her father to marry me to one of his knights, something you can try to act like all you like, but you'll never be one."

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, _Lady Handsmaiden_. I didn't know your Lady decided to whore you out to one of her knights. I wish your sons will become kings and your daughters queens." Ulfric's voice was filled with disdain. Her words stabbed him as it reminded of his sister's naive dreams: falling in love with a bannerman and marrying him during their tours around the country, singing in feasts. The baseborn and the highborn never mix, and her sister's pipe dream was shattered. At least she found a good man.

"You..." The girl trembles in fury, "Aghhh!" With a cry of anger, she turns around and stomps off, back towards the castle. Sighing, Ulfric turns back towards the stream and cups another handful of the clear water. _What the fuck is her problem. Nobles and their fucking shit._

* * *

"Oi, where the fuck have you been, you lazy ass?" Jon's voice greets Ulfric as he stepped back into his group of friends.

"Taking a fucking piss, didn't you hear me?" Ulfric replies curtly, the annoyance apparent in his voice.

"Woah... the fuck is wrong with you?" Jon mutters before shutting up as Ulfric shoots him a glare.

"Didn't I tell you we don't need logs?" Jorah's shouts at Ulfric as he starts hacking away at a tree with all his force.

Ignoring Jorah, Ulfric continues, the rhythmic thuds calming him.


	3. Hero of the Smoking Log

"How long do you think the fucking Lions will last?" Jon asks in a loud voice, eyeing the barmaid as he downs his third cup of wine. The girl was easy on the eyes, a curvy frame compounding well with her unimpressive, though naturally sultry, features. Ulfric fights down a smile. It is always amusing to him when Jon tries out of his way to impress a wench.

"I reckon they'll be crushed before the end of the year." Harold laughs, his naturally optimistic tone made Ulfric want to believe he was right. The trip to the local tavern was fully sponsored by Borys's bag of coins. He was quick to relinquish his ill-gained coffers to Ulfric when Ulfric threatened to inform Captain Horas of the true perpetrators behind that little "Pleasure Den". It wasn't much, but it bought Ulfric and company a well-needed break from the battle and firewood duty.

"I heard that the Lannisters have whole dungeons full of gold. You think we could snatch some when we take Casterly Rock?" Jon's eyes light up as he imagined the unrivaled wealth of the house of red and gold.

"You think the lords will let us waltz into the gold reserves and just casually grab a few bars?" Ulfric puts a quick end to the younger boy's fantasy, the thought of nobility left a bitter aftertaste to his wine.

Jorah nods, setting his cup down. "You'll be lucky to grab a single crown stag from Casterly Rock."

"But what if we fight really well. Maybe we'll be named bannermen." Harold's eyes turn dreamy. "Hell, I might even get to marry one of His Grace's sisters."

His overly optimistic outlook prompted the other four to burst out laughing. "You? Fight well? The Others would march through the bloody Wall before you get named bannerman." Jon gives Harold a hard slap on his back.

"Hey, stop laughing at me. I've got everything planned out." Harold joins in the laughing, even though the laughter was directed at him. "So, listen. When we storm King's Landing, you guys will help me grab a guard or something. I'll beat the living shit out of him and force him to tell me where the Lady Starks are held. Then you guys will support me as I charge into the keep and save Lady Sansa. You can have Lady Arya, Jon."

The ridiculous plan prompts even more laughter. "Oi! _You_ can have Lady Arya. I'll be helping myself to Lady Sansa."

"And during our wedding, Ulfric will play _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown,_ then the crowd will go wild as they carry us back to the bedroom." Harold ignores Jon's retort. "Then, in a few years, my house will be full of little lords and ladies running around."

Ulfric smiles. He wonders how long the five of them will be able to have this mindless banter together. With each upcoming battle, it was harder and harder to imagine all five of them will make it out alive. He knows the others are aware of this painful fact as well. He could see the glint of uncertainty in their laughing eyes, though all five of them tries to bury it behind a facade of humour.

Ulfric takes a sip of his wine, the cool drink flowing down his throat in a satisfying stream. "Instead of dreaming about marrying a lady, just be grateful that no one noticed us leaving. If Old Man Horas found out, we' be assigned to..."

* * *

"... guard duty." Ulfric groans quietly. Here he is, back in front of King Robb's bedroom again, the same constricting helmet; the same crushing monotony; the same suffocating silence. Though, this time he was inside the room rather than outside. _Fucking Borys! I'll get you once I'm back._

His posture was more uptight than the last time he guarded the door, as King Robb laid in his bed, his wound neatly bandaged. A hint of jasmine permeates the room, Ulfric notes, a rather uncharacteristic fragrance for the Young Wolf. The room is spacious, though bland and very under-furbished for the master bedroom of the keep. The King's direwolf, Grey Wind eyes Ulfric cautiously, as if judging his loyalty. The creature made Ulfric uneasy. He had seen what it could do on the battlefield, mauling a whole man clad in armour to shreds. Its eyes seem alert and intelligent, almost otherworldly intelligent, and they stared at Ulfric, almost directly into his soul.

"You do not need to worry about Grey Wind. He will not hurt my own men." The King's voice resonates in the room, strong and commanding. Ulfric turns his gaze towards the Yong Wolf. He seems a lot better now, no longer pale from his wound. King Robb gives Ulfric a reassuring smile, and for the first time in a long while, Ulfric realised the King was not much older than he is. His Grace was barely a man, yet he seemed much more mature and commanded much more obedience than Ulfric.

"Yes, Your Grace." Ulfric nods and, in a conscious effort to appear relaxed, slouches slightly.

"What's your name?" The King starts up some friendly banter with his guard, perhaps in an attempt to make the young man more at ease.

"Ulfric, Your Grace." Ulfric replies courteously. His helmet seems slightly tilted to the side, but he was afraid any sudden moves would provoke the large creature resting beside the King.

"One of Umber's men?"

"No, Your Grace, my pa ran an alehouse in the winter town."

"The Smoking Log?" The King's face looks genuinely intrigued.

"Aye, you know of the place, Your Grace?" Ulfric never recalled seeing any of the Starks visiting their alehouse.

"Yes. I remember your sister. She has a beautiful voice. Her performance in the feast a couple of years ago was breathtaking. What is her name?"

"Mya, Your Grace." Ulfric felt a flurry of emotion as the King mentions the feast. _If only we didn't perform at that feast..._

As if sensing this barrage of emotions inside him, Grey Wind growls, prompting the Young Wolf to put a hand on its mane, calming it down. "So you were the one who played the lute to accompany her. I'm glad that the two of you performed that night. My mother wanted to hire a travelling band of performers, but Jory insisted that the two of you had the most amazing performances in all of the Seven Kingdoms. In the end, my father," The King's face darkened at the mention of his father, and Grey Wind whimpered, "decided that it was more fitting for Northmen to perform for the Karstarks."

Ulfric stiffens at the mention of the Karstarks. "You're too kind, Your Grace." As if sensing his discomfort, the King falls into silence, the two of them brooding over two different tragic events, Ulfric at the feast, and Robb at the execution of his father.

The gloomy atmosphere was interrupted by a timid knock on the door. A soft voice entered the room through the door, "May I enter, Your Grace?"

The King's face visibly lightens when he heard her. Nodding towards Ulfric, the King replies, "Please do, my Lady."

Ulfric shifts over to the door and pulls it open gingerly. He was greeted by two faces, one with a gentle smile and the other with a murderous glare.

Lady Jeyne gracefully walks over beside the King's bed, performing an elegant curtsy. Her handmaiden follows closely after her, taking a small detour to _accidentally_ step on Ulfric's foot as she passes by.

"Lily, place the basket here and wait for me outside. I will take care of the rest." "Ulfric, Lady Jeyne will take care of me, you should keep an eye on the door outside." The two spoke in perfect unison. Lady Jeyne blushes prettily, and the King scratches the back of his head ruefully, an awkward silence enveloping the two. Ulfric caught on, and, deciding to leave the two to their privacy, clears his throat, "As you wish, Your Grace," before leaving the room.

* * *

"Stop staring at me, peasant." The handmaiden spits in disdain. It was evident that she wanted nothing to do with Ulfric, but she was stuck here, just like him. The past quarter of an hour was spent in silence as she occasionally cast a glare towards Ulfric.

"Oh, I'm so sorry for casting my gaze on a knight's breeding stock." Ulfric snickers, his helmet finally sitting completely upright after the millionth minute adjustment he made to its position.

"What did you call me?" Her eyes widened in rage, and Ulfric could see her fists trembling as she grips the side of her dress.

"What do you think will happen after your lady whores you out to her knights? You get married and live happily ever after? What a fucking joke. You'll just be there to bring your husband children, while he fucks other women he lusts after." His lashes his words out at her mercilessly. "And you bet there will be innocent girls throwing themselves at him. Who wouldn't want a handsome gallant knight to sweep them off their feet. What a fucking load of horse shit."

"And you're _soooooo_ much better than the knights, _Ser Guard._ Go back to your cheap brothels and cheap wine. I'd rather be with an unfaithful knight than a vulgar scoundrel like you." Ulfric could hear the anger in her voice, and he felt a tinge of guilt. The girl never actually wronged him, but yet here he was, attacking her with his venomous words. Her attitude irked him, but does that justify his cruel words, or was he merely taking his frustration out on her since her naivety reminded him so much of his failure to protect Mya.

"Suit yourself, I guess." He replies coldly.

His curt reply took the girl aback, her face seemed to ask _that's it?_ She eyes him suspiciously, as if anticipating his next wave of verbal abuse. Seeing that he has no intention of continuing the verbal assault, she visibly relaxes, her flushed face cooling down.

"Why do you hate the nobles so much?" The question pierces their ceasefire silence, "Without them, there's no one to protect us smallfolk. No one to keep the peace, no one to stop bandits from roaming, and no one to bring justice to the wicked."

Ulfric grunts an intelligible reply, a bit annoyed that she broke the silence, but at the same time glad that the hostile atmosphere dissipated somewhat. She continues, speaking of the honourable lords and the kind ladies. Ulfric can't help but notice how pretty she is when she isn't angrily glaring at him, her slender hands alive with animation as she speaks.

"Stop staring at me, peasant." This time, the words had far less hostility instilled. "And answer my question."

"What?" Ulfric blinks, confused.

The girl rolls her eyes in exasperation, "I asked you, why do you hate the highborn so much."

Ulfric sighs, sitting down on the floor. "I don't know... I just... don't like the way they treat us smallfolk." He gives her a vague answer, hoping it would satisfy her.

"Didn't you hear what I said about-, oh nevermind..." She sits down beside him. "What's your name? I don't want to call you 'you' or ' _Ser Guard'_ all the time."

Ulfric snickers, "You were angry at me a moment ago and now you want to know my name?"

A sly smirk appears on her face, "Maybe I'm just asking you so that I could tattle to your King about your misbehaviour." She wraps her arms around her knees.

"Ulfric, son of Ullric, the Second of His Name, the Bearer of Drinks, the Handsome Stallion in the North, the Great Hero of Smoking Lo-" He couldn't help but burst out laughing along with the girl's giggles.

"Then I'm Lily Fairmaiden, the First of Her Name, the Beauty of the West, the Lady of Love and Beauty." Lily introduces herself in turn between fits of giggles.

"Beauty of the West? I wouldn't marry you even if I were a fucking bear." Ulfric laughs, prompting Lily to stick her tongue out at him.

"And if you're the Handsome Stallion in the North, then I feel sorry for the Northern women." She retorts, relaxing her posture slightly.

"Yeah, I feel sorry for them too. There's only one of me, not enough to go around." Ulfrick counters, giving Lily an exaggerated wink.

"You know, I would have mistaken you for a knight, until you opened your mouth." Lily says in feigned disgust, stifling back a smile.

"Sorry for shattering your fantasy, but some knights talk like this when they're not around ladies, too." Ulfric smirks and kneels in an exaggerated manner, parodying the knights of the south. "Perhaps my Lady would prefer if I spoke like this."

Lily places a finger on her chin, as if pondering whether Ulfric's little skit was acceptable or not.

A small giggle from behind the two catches their attention. Ulfric stared directly at Lady Jeyne, who caught the two in their little theatrical display. Behind her, the King's stoic face gave way to a hint of a smile. "Ser Ulfric, would you escort Lady Jeyne and her companion back to their chambers?" Deciding to humour their display, the King commands with a slight smile.

* * *

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" Harold asks as he unfastens his sword from his belt, throwing it over towards Edd, who catches it and sets it down.

"Nothing." Ulfric replies as he pulls his helmet off his sweat covered face.

"Two fucking days in a row... I just want some bloody rest!" Jon whines, plopping down on his mattress. Shaking his head, Jorah kicks his boots aside, "Maybe I should stop following you idiots around everywhere."

"Awww, come on Jorah, how can you say that to your friends?" Jon turns around, striking a mildly seductive pose. "You know you want to be with me, honey."

Jorah rolls his eyes and picks up his boots before launching one across the tent, the heel landing squarely on Jon's face. "Fuck off, Lord Pissmouth."

Joining in the laughter, Ulfric rolls onto his mattress. _Ser Ulfric...? Not bad..._


	4. A Raven From Winterfell

_Fair as the moon, fair as the winter snow._

 _Fair as the sun, fair as the summer breeze._

 _Her eyes innocent and youthful as a doe,_

 _Oh, Winter Maid, how her voice move the weirwood trees._

Mya's voice garnered the applause of the audience of four. It was a slow day. Most of the men had followed Ser Rodrick in his march towards Torrhen's Square, the few men left in Winterfell were either too young, too old, or too weak to fight. Mya was relieved when Willem returned home yesterday. He was the maester's scribe, and was left behind while the other men geared up for war.

"Mya, could you fetch the hops from Wylis? The son of a bitch promised he'd bring it two days ago." Her father's voice commanded from the cellar.

"From the keep, pa?" Mya asks, straightening the sides of her dress.

"Aye. Be careful out there. Word is the blasted ironborn are raiding towns." He emerges from the cellar, carrying a large barrel.

"Oh, come on, pa. We're in Winterfell, there's nothing to worry about." She scoffs at her father's over-the-top concern, wrapping her overcoat over her shoulders.

"Can't be too careful, honey." He shakes his head before setting the barrel down. "I've already sent Ulfric away. I can't stand losing you."

Mya sighs, walking over to her father. He was well into this thirties, though since her brother marched down south with Lord-, no, King Robb, he seemed to have aged two decades. Wrinkles appeared where there were none before, his hair seemed more grey each day, and his eyes seemed to lose their spark. "Pa, Ulfric will be alright. He's already a man grown. Who knows, he might even bring home a pretty southern lady and be named bannerman." The thought of her brother riding into battle was absurd, but it did bring a smile onto her father's tired face.

"J-just be careful, Mya." Her father mutters before returning to the cellar. Mya smiles as her gaze followed her father before he disappeared into the cellar. He was once a livelier man, when her mother was still around. _If only I had gone to Alayne earlier._ He would still sometimes mumble in his sleep. Ever since she was gone, her father has always been fiercely protective of the two remaining siblings. Mya could still remember Ulfric and her father's fight when Ulfric answered their household's levy call. That was the last time the two of them talked, as the next day Ulfric marched south with King Robb's host. Sighing, Mya fastens her overcoat before stepping out into the snow.

* * *

Winterfell's keep stands majestically, watching over the winter town. The seat of the Starks' power, Winterfell seemed like the biggest castle in the world, and to Mya, it is. It was the only castle she has ever seen, and though she heard of much grander castles in the south, she could not imagine anything as large as Winterfell. The interior of the castle was warm even in the snow, and her mother used to tell her that there was a dragon underneath the castle, heating it up with fire. At the time Mya had wished they had a dragon under their house to keep them warm during the night.

Her destination was the castle's kitchen, but she decided to take a detour before going on her errand.

"Mya? What are you doing here?" Willem asks, surprised as he looks up from his ledger.

"I thought you might want something to eat." Mya smiles as she pulls out a small piece of cake wrapped in her handkerchief from her coat.

"M-Maester Ludwin would be mad if he caught me taking a break." Willem says, though he made no move to drive Mya away.

Moving beside him, Mya sits down beside her husband. He is good to her, willing to give his everything for her even after everything she did to him. He is almost a man, fifteen years of age, and though almost a year older than her, he felt like the younger brother she never had. "But you deserve a break."

A heartfelt smile creeps across his face, "Mya..." He starts, but furrows his brows. "Is something wrong?"

"What? No, nothing's wrong, Will."

"Mya, I know when you're worried over something. I've known you since we were babes." He tucks a loose strand of her flowing dark hair behind her ear.

"It's just... I'm worried about Ulfric." Mya sighs, there was nothing she could hide from him. "I've heard the stories of the battles. I just hope he wasn't on the front line. And my father... I don't know what he would do if anything happened to Ulfric."

"Don't worry. I heard that they've won every single battle. Us Northmen are worth ten southerners, I'm sure Ulfric is fine." Willem reassures her, pulling her into his arms.

"He's no fighter, Will. Why... Why did that stupid oaf march south?" She knew the answer perfectly well, but she wanted her husband's reassurance.

"He did it for Ullric. Your father would have had to march with King Robb if Ulfric hadn't gone." His voice was gentle but firm. The two held each other, and Mya relaxed in Willem's arms, his warmth calm and comforting.

"Is it okay if I stay like this for a bit?" Mya murmurs. Willem just holds her even closer.

* * *

"Here you go." Wylis hands Mya a basket filled with the zesty flowers she came to the keep for.

"Thank you, Uncle Wylis. My father says hello, along with his complaints." She smiles at the older man.

"Tell him I'm sorry, the ironborn raids caused some panic. Bad for business." He scratches he back of his head with an apologetic sigh. "Who would have thought Lord Ned's own ward would turn on him. The Starks took him in as one of their own, and this is how he repay them?"

"Hopefully His Grace returns and deal with them soon." Mya nods. She remembers the man responsible for the panic, Theon Greyjoy. He was the only kid in the Stark household that visited the Smoking Log. Mya could remember how her friends would gossip over him. _Isn't he handsome?_ Kayla would say. _I bet he's got a sweetheart back home who's waaaaaay prettier than you._ Reiya would tease Kayla and the three of them would burst out in laughter. He was the perfect gentleman, soft-spoken and handsome, the image of a gallant southern lord, someone Mya used to adore and wished she could marry.

"Stay safe out there, Mya." Wylis says as he checks his stores once more.

"You sound just like my pa." Mya laughs.

"Well, your pa is a smart man." Wylis says, his head hidden behind his cart. "It's getting late, you should head back before he starts to worry."

"Thank you, Uncle Wylis." She heads down the hall of the keep. Fighting the urge to go back into the castellan's office and give Willem one last kiss before going back, Mya walks into the snow filled courtyard. The portcullis is closed, rather unusual for this time of the day. Winterfell's garrison is virtually gone when they marched out to meet the ironborn in Torrhen's Square. Only a handful of men remained to guard the Northern capital, but the castle's walls kept the Starks' ancestral home safe. A single man on the wall could hold against a hundred, or so her father told her. Before her brother went south, Ulfric was the one who came to the keep and retrieved supplies from Wylis, and he would tell her of the splendor inside Winterfell. When she was but a small girl, she often imagined singing in the halls of this great castle, the lords and ladies applauding her as she and Ulfric capture the hearts of everyone in the feast with their music. And perhaps she would capture the heart of a young lordling, his handsome face filled with awe as she sang, his noble heart throbbing every time their gazes met. And he would follow her after the feast, the two of them eloping, knowing his Lord Father would never approve of their marriage. The two would live happily, until his father forgave the couple and welcome them back to his homestead, and Mya would be named a Lady. But that was when she knew nothing. A highborn lordling would never marry a peasant girl like her, even if they lusted after her. She knew that all too well.

The portcullis is still closed, stopping Mya in her tracks. It is eerily quiet, not a shadow of human activity.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Mya calls, wondering why the gate was unmanned. "Hello?"

That was when she heard the screams.

* * *

Ufric takes a deep breath of the night breeze. There is no snow in the south at this time, something Ulfric was not used to. He spent the first half of the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep, but not knowing why. The day was tiring, as his entourage was assigned to patrol the camp, but he was not able to edge himself towards the blissful lands of dreams. Slipping into his boots, Ulfric tiptoed out of his camp, avoiding Edd's foot as it invaded his mattress.

And now here he is, by the stream where he first talked to Lily, his lute in his hands. _Is this what they mean by homesickness?_ Ulfric strums a few chords idly, the familiar feeling of the instrument in his hands calmed him. A wave of loneliness washes over him as he stares at his "lover", reminding him of the days back in the winter town, which seemed further away than ever. He thought of the cozy smell of firewood burning in the fireplace, he thought of the rowdy patrons begging him to play just one more song before they returned home, he thought of his father storming off into the woods when Ulfric told him of marching down south with King Robb.

 _I'm not a boy anymore, pa. I can make my own choices!_ He shouted at his father. The older man's face flushed bright red with rage, and he raised his fist. Ulfric flinched. It was the first time his father threatened to beat him ever since his mother's absence. But instead of bringing his fist down at his son, his old man pounded the table before disappearing into the forest with his axe. Ulfric never had a chance to regret their altercation, for the next day he was fitted with a helmet that always seemed slightly tilted to the side, a shield that was a size too big for him, and a sword that felt awkward in his hands compared to his lute, his "lover".

His idle strumming soon turned into a coherent melody, and he felt himself singing in the deafening silence of the night.

 _Her laugh warms me to my core,_

 _Her touch fills me with glee,_

 _I can't forget her and I wanted more,_

 _Oh, Winter Maid, how I want you to be with me._

His singing is interrupted by a loud flap. Looking up, he spots a shadow gliding through the woods. It flies straight towards the keep, and against the brightly illuminated castle, Ulfric recognises the shape. A raven. Perhaps it was news from Riverrun, or perhaps a report from Harrenhal, but Ulfric could not shake the feeling of dread as he watches the raven deliver its letter into the keep, the cool night breeze turning into a bone-chilling howl.

* * *

 ** _(Hope you liked the story so far! I'd love any kind of feedback and/or criticism you have or just your general opinion on the story as a whole :))_**


	5. The Feast: Prelude

_**(Sorry for taking so long for this chapter! I noticed the mistake where canonically Jeyne Westerling took Robb Stark into her chamber to nurse his wounds, but couldn't find any good ways to edit the story to fit with the canon. I stuck with the way it is in the end, so apologies for anyone who noticed the mistake and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!)**_

* * *

Ulfric woke up to the sound of eight thousand hooves. The encampment was filled with commotion, tents being deconstructed, horses being led away from the stables, and most deafening of all, the sound of bickering. His mind is still groggy from his uneasy sleep, mostly due to Edd's casual invasion of his mattress space. Having had a restless night, Ulfric drags himself off the mattress reluctantly. Harold was already up, grudgingly slipping into his boots.

"What the fuck is all of this about?" Ulfric asks Harold, fighting back a yawn.

"I don't know, sounds like the Freys are all throwing a temper tantrum." Harold muses as he stands up. "You want to check out what's happening?"

"Yeah, sure." Ulfric mutters, walking over Jon's precariously placed leg. The two exits their tent and was greeted with a flurry of activity. The Frey towers were missing from the encampment, a third of the camp empty, save for the few tents still being deconstructed at the moment, and in the midst of all the commotion, a tall and wiry man stood, shouting orders at his men.

"Isn't that Lord Frey? What's he doing here?" Harold notes, watching the dissembling of the Frey camp with confusion.

"Oi, Borys, what's going on?" Shaking his head in response to Harold's question, Ulfric spots a familiar figure lurking near by. Borys turns around, his well built body glistening with sweat as he sets down his axe.

"The Freys are leaving." He says nonchalantly and returns to his work.

"I can see that. I'm asking why they're leaving?" Ulfric sighs, knowing full well that Borys understood his intentions the first time he asked.

"Well, that's gonna cost you." Borys turns around once more with a smile that wouldn't look out of place on the face of a vulture that had been starving for days and had just found a dying Northman in search for answers.

Fighting the urge to smack the greedy son of a bitch in the head, Ulfric sighs, "Maybe I should tell the captain the real reason we went to the tavern last week, and where the money for the trip came from." He pats the little bag of coins on his belt, making a satisfying jingle.

A wrinkle of worry appears on Borys's face. Stopping his swing in mid air, Borys grumbles, "Look, I don't know much, but word is King Robb broke his promise with the Freys. And they're not happy about it. That's all I know"

Ulfric nods, muttering a simple thanks before turning to Harold. "We should go back and wake the others. Five pairs of ears are better than two."

"Yeah, let's go."

* * *

"What... the fuck... is going on?" Jon asks, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Ulfric sighs and gives him a gentle kick, "Time to wake up, Princess Jon." Jon groans a weak complaint, but grudgingly sits up.

"Let me guess, the captain found out you installed a trap in his privy?" Jorah shakes his head dismissively at Jon.

"What? No! I didn't do anything!" Jon denies vehemently, his confusion apparent.

"That's exactly what the culprit would say." Captain Horas says as he enters Ulfric and friends' tent. Jon's eyes widen in terror, "I swear! I didn't do anything."

Captain Horas laughs, "I'm not here to fuck around with you, Jon, though if I ever find a trap while taking a shit, I'll know who to punish." He looks around the tent before locking eyes with Ulfric. "Ulfric, His Grace asks for you to join him this evenning."

It took a moment for the captain's words to sink in. "Huh? Why?" Ulfric asks, not sure if the bulky man was messing with him.

Captain Horas shrugs, "His Grace just said to send you to the dining hall at sunset." He gives Ulfric a gentle pat on the shoulders before marching out, leaving the tent and Ulfric in confusion. "Make sure you don't arrive late." He says before disappearing behind the constraints of the tent.

As soon as the captain was out of sight, Ulfric's buddies erupt in a blizzard of hypotheses.

"What does the King want with Ulfric?"

"Maybe Ulfric is secretly a noble bastard."

"But then wouldn't his name be Ulfric Snow?"

"No, no, what if Ulfric is getting sent to take the black?"

"But why would His Grace ask for Ulfric to join him?"

"I think the secret noble bastard thing is pretty likely. I mean, there's no way he's related to Mya. She's pretty and delicate, while Ulfric is as beautiful as a pile of shit."

"Uhhh... You know I'm right here, right? I can hear all of you talking." Ulfric sighs, but his remark was lost in the chaotic brainstorm.

"Nah, I'm sure Ulfric is as baseborn as the rest of us."

"Yeah, I think Captain Horas is just pulling his leg."

"That old man couldn't prank a demented pig. No way he'd think up of a joke this grand."

"What if the King fell in love with Ulfric?" Jon's theory effectively ended the little brainstorm session as the entire tent fills with laughter.

"That would explain... why the Freys... are leaving." Harold chokes in between the fits of laughter.

"Wait, what? They're leaving?" Jorah asks, confused as he stops dead in his laughing.

"Yeah, apparently His Grace broke the marriage promise." Harold nods, trying his best to keep a straight face from all the laughter.

"Oh, that's the nail in the coffin for this theory." Jon does a little celebratory dance, "Damn, I'm smart! Maybe I should go to the Citadel and study as a maester."

Snorting at Jon's enthusiastic dance, Edd turns towards Ulfric, "You have any idea why the King wants you?" His unintended double entendre led to more giggles from the other three.

"No, I have not a single clue..." Ulfric mutters, running every single possibility through his head, but aside from some outlandish conjectures, he could only think of one convincing theory. _Mya...?_ The King had stated that he remembers Ulfric's sister and he didn't seem unimpressed with her voice. _But would His Grace go as far as breaking his deal with the Freys?_ Ulfric knew his sister was charming, and it wasn't hard to believe that a noble would want her. He couldn't believe the King would break his promise just to marry a simple peasant girl, yet that was the only explanation he could think of.

"Well, whatever it is, we've got to make you presentable to His Grace this evening." Jon smiles, still stubbornly holding on to his theory. "You remember that barmaid from the tavern last week? The one with those killer curves?" The group nods, remembering their little escapade and the grueling punishment afterwards. "Well, I've gotten to know her a bit more intimately, if you catch my drift. I'm sure she can fix Ulfric up and make him pretty as a flower. And I'm sure we can all pool in some crowns and get him some new threads. Battlegear is hardly a fitting dress for our bride-to-be to wear."

* * *

Ulfric paces nervously in front of the King's chambers, not knowing whether to knock and enter or to run back to the tent and desert his post. The shirt and vest his friends got him from the nearby town felt chaffing and constricting, which only added to his anxiety. He was afraid the King would be mad when he breaks the news to His Grace and hoped his new attire wouldn't get in the way if he had to desert to preserve his life. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door between him and possible doom.

"You may enter." The King's voice commands from inside, and Ulfric opens the door shakily.

"It's good to see you, Ulfric. Has Captain Horas informed you on my wishes?" The King greets Ulfric with a warm smile, the touch of leadership coming naturally to him even though he is barely a man grown.

"No, Your Grace." Ulfric replies, his words sounding as if they were caught in his throat. "But before you do, I have to confess."

"Confess?" King Robb lifts an eyebrow, an intrigued expression on his face.

"Your Grace, I know my sister is pretty and all, but..." Ulfric starts, afraid that the King would take offense to the news he was about to break, "You shouldn't have canceled your marriage with the Freys for her. She's already married."

Silence hung in the air awkwardly like a heavy curtain. Ulfric could almost hear the sound of crows in the distance, and he sneaked a peek at the King. His Grace was looking at Ulfric with a bewildered expression, a cross between a question and a laugh. "What in the name of the old gods are you talking about?"

Convinced that his theory was correct, Ulfric stared at his liege at a loss for words, not knowing what to do as he realises his theory was as far from the truth as it can be. "I summoned you here to perform at my wedding feast tonight. I wish to show Lady Jeyne the songs of my home." The King's words pulled Ulfric back from his stupor.

"L-Lady Jeyne Westerling?" Ulfric stammers, sighing a sigh of relief while at the same time embarrassed because of his stupid theory.

The King nods, a hint of bashfulness reminding Ulfric of His Grace's youth and inducing a wave of admiration as Ulfric muses over His Grace's achievements compared to his own, even though the two of them are born mere months apart. The Young Wolf and the bartender's son: two men from two different worlds, yet Ulfric couldn't help but feel a sense of pity for the King and the burden His Grace must carry while Ulfric could muck about with his friends, enjoying the first years of becoming a man. Mentally waving away the insolent thoughts, Ulfric tries to regain his composure, "I'm sorry, Your Grace, curse my active imagination. May I head back to my tent and grab my lov-, I mean, my lute?"

"Of course." The King permits, his body seemed to have recovered from the arrow wound, though a hint of sadness lingered in his eyes.

"And, please forgive my insolence, Your Grace, but could my friends join me in the feast? They're good men, though rowdy at times, and I would loathe to leave them behind." Ulfric asks as he courteously exits the room.

Nodding his consent, King Robb sits back in his bed, his posture apprehensive and uneasy. _Perhaps he is nervous about his wedding?_ Ulfric wonders, though something tells him that there are other, more dire issues that occupied His Grace's mind.

* * *

"Gods be damned!" Jon mutters in between mouthfuls of food, his face stuffed with the savoury pie. "This is so much better than the shit we're being fed in camp."

Jorah sighs and smacks Jon across the back of his head, sending a piece of pie flying into Edd's plate. "Watch your tongue, you fool! Do you _have_ to advertise your peasantry to everyone here?"

"Goodness gracious, if I had known guard duty would get me acquainted with the King himself, I'd volunteer for that sh-, job." Harold laughs as he strains to keep his tongue civil, lest Jorah chastise him for vulgar language. Ulfric smiles, glad that he had brought his posse along. He would have felt completely out of place without them.

"You better be gracious of your benefactor, _me._ I expect the respect befitting a lord from now on." He jests with a proud smirk, expecting Jorah to rain on his parade.

"Aye, Lord of the Smoking Log, we humbly accept your benevolence." Jon was the first to reply, however, and does an exaggerated bow, knocking over Jorah's glass and spilling wine all over Jorah's bread. His little charade was noticed by Captain Horas, who, seated a few benches closer to the centre of the hall, shakes his head and mutters a few disapproving words about Ulfric and his little party seated at the end of the hall, far away from the nobles.

A couple of bards played beautiful southern songs as the feast progressed. Ulfric waited anxiously for the King to call upon him. The last time he had played for such a big crowd was a couple of years ago in the halls of Winterfell. Who would have thought that he would be playing for a King just years after, entertaining his new Queen. A painful smile crept onto his face without him noticing. _She wouldn't believe me if I told her this, would she?_ He muses as he unknowingly stumbled into his sister's dream, and he could imagine the envy on her face when he tells her this story. _No,_ if _I tell her this story. If I even make it out of this alive._ The sobering thought brings Ulfric back to the present just as he catches Jon stealing a piece of his pie.

"Oh, sorry, thought you wouldn't notice." Jon smiles ruefully before stuffing the stolen pie into his mouth.

Ulfric was about to give Jon a piece of his mind when he felt a light tap on his shoulder, " _Ser_ _Guard_? His Grace has tasked me with covering for your tone-deafness." He is greeted with Lily's twinkling hazel eyes as he turned around.

"I don't think His Grace has ever heard me sing." Ulfric retorts, "And I don't think a southern _Lady_ like you would know of the songs of the North."

"I've done my research, so don't you worry about me, _good ser."_ Her voice is layered thick with sarcasm as she takes in the sight of Ulfric and his unruly band of commoners who seem out of place like septons in a whorehouse.

"That's awfully thoughtful of you, _Lady Handmaiden,_ seeing as His Grace knows nothing of my singing skills. It's almost as if _you_ wanted to sing with me." Ulfric bows in mock graciousness.

"I-I'm just afraid you'll scare Lady Sybell to death with your horrendous singing." A slight blush creeps up her cheeks.

"What the fuck, Ulfric? You are a knight?" Jon interrupts, his eyes fixed on Lily's pretty face. "You never told us. When did you start following the southern gods?"

Sometimes Ulfric could never figure out if Jon is joking or he is plain stupid. "No, Jon, she was being sarcastic." Ulfric sighs.

"Ahhh, I see, I see." Jon nods in a gesture comprehension, though Ulfric is doubtful if his words even reached his friend. "By the way, milady, has anyone told you that you're absolutely gorgeous. I'm Jon. If you don't mind, I'd like to know your name."

"I'm sorry, _Ser Jon,_ but His Grace gave me orders to retrieve _Ser Ulfric_ , and I would hate to anger him by being late." Lily rolls her eyes, but does a quick curtsy.

"Oh, I'm not a knight, mila-" Jon's reply was cut short as Lily grabs Ulfric by the arm and pulls him after her. Ulfric gives a quick wave to his friends before picking up his lover and following after Lily.

"What a rude lady..." Jon mutters to himself as he proceeds to stuff another mouthful of the feast down his throat, prompting Jorah to take up the role of a chastising parent.


End file.
